


Coming in Hot

by Carbocat



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Heat Stroke, the vast majority of this takes place in a bathtub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 04:30:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbocat/pseuds/Carbocat
Summary: Anatole was hot. It was kind of a problem.“I’ll make sure it is written on your tombstone that you died of heat stroke for the aesthetic.”





	Coming in Hot

**Author's Note:**

> Things to know about me: I know absolutely nothing about the Russian countryside and as far as I can tell, there wasn’t a heatwave in Russia during the early nineteenth century but there also not currently a heatwave where I live and it still feels like I’m going to die every time I go outside. 
> 
> I am not a fan of using OCs but I used OCs. They're largely unimportant so don't mind them much.

Dolokhov’s men grew weary under the summer sun.

Any relief felt when winter winds faded into the pleasant breeze of spring had long since passed into trepidation for summer humidity. There was an awful heat pressing down on the Russian countryside, there was no relief for Dolokhov’s band of poor merchants’ sons and war-wary men, and even less for Anatole.

Anatole was pretty prince among men with no titles, no lofty castle to return home to and no wealth, and no qualms about jesting him for his own. With a mouth so pretty and words so sweet, his princely education allotted Dolokhov a smooth-talking translator in four languages and the justification to keep his troublesome friend close. He could talk himself out of any trouble and into anybody’s bed but it was more often that he talked Dolokhov’s men into laughing fits with the ridiculous flair he did everything with.

All men regardless of title or rank eventually bantered and joked at each other’s expense on a long enough travel. Hell, Dolokhov was the highest ranking among them, a decorated and respected officer, and they still ragged on him for all the letters he wrote home to his mother, but Anatole offered the most material.

He was prince, and pretty, and his slim figure and high cheekbones had him mistaken for a woman more than once by drunken officers. For the most part, Anatole handled what was tossed at him and lobbed it back with a smooth insult of his own. But the heat put an end to that.

The heat had turned what was supposed to be an easy peaceful mission into a torturous one. Their tempers were as flaring as the blazing sun above them, making them snappy and bitchy, and sunburnt all to hell but no one suffered more than the fair haired and pale skinned prince.

“The princess is lagging.” Solokov’s gruff voice was accompanied by the heavy hooves of his horse as overtook Dolokhov’s lead. His uniform shed and his shoulders bare and already browning into a tan. Dolokhov checked behind him and sure enough, Anatole had slipped from the middle of the group to the rear.

He whistled to Kaysorov and gestured with his head for the soldier to take the lead from the directionally challenged Solokov before reining his horse back until he was trotting along beside Anatole. He wasn’t acknowledged at first, or even after a minute. Anatole appeared lost in some thought with a blank and empty expression slacking his face until Dolokhov prompted him, “All is well, Anatole?”

Anatole startled and then shot him an annoyed glare of piercing blue, eyes made bluer by messy sun bleached hair and the red among pale cheeks. He pressed his cracked dry lips together into a thin line before his bottom lip jutted out into a pout. He complained, “It is miserable, Fedya, when will we seek shelter from the sun?”

“When there is shelter to seek,” He replied, eyes glancing over the grassy plain they were riding through. There had not been a single tree since they set out that morning and it did not look like there would be another before they reached their destination. “Look around, it is only us and the birds. We will need to reach town before nightfall or the heat will be the least of our worries.”

“We should not have been tasked with such a mundane mission as this, it is an insult to us all,” He muttered, not for the first time since they’d set out from Petersburg. Dolokhov resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the prince. “We are delivering letters, Dolokhov. _Letters._ ”

“Letters is a simplification of our main objective, Anatole,” He replied lightly. They were correspondence letters about a counter attack against the French bundled in the inner breast pocket of his vest but that meant little to Anatole because his scowl only deepened, “We are receiving letters, too.”

“Wonderful, mon cher, we are the postal service.”

“They are important letters,” Dolokhov told him. “Which is why we have been tasked to carry them. Be honored.”

Anatole grumbled, dabbing at his heated face with a soiled handkerchief, “Do you have water, mine is gone?”

“Already?” He asked skeptically but Anatole sent him another annoyed glare so Dolokhov did roll his eyes this time and passed his canteen over, “Do not drink – Anatole!”

He snatched the thing from him when Anatole tried to chug his entire water supply, “You will make yourself sick and then neither of us will be happy.”   

“I am already unhappy,” He whined. “I am hot.”

“I am aware,” He said flatly and then observed his friend. He truly did look miserable.

The heat rash on his neck was scratching angrily against the top of his collar, irritating it even farther, and the sunburn across his cheeks and forehead seemed more pronounced than it had this morning. The skin was starting to peel around his nose and ears. “You may feel better if you undid your collar.”

Anatole shot him a scandalized look before adjusting his collar higher up his neck, “No, thank you.”

“I can assure you that no one will think less of you for it,” He joked but it fell flat in the heat. “Everybody has.”

Most of Dolokhov’s men have either loosened their collars or shed their jackets altogether, with exception of Solokov who was bare down to his trousers and even those were rolled to the knee. Anatole’s uniform remained in proper order, burning metals and all. He sneered at the thought, “Yes, and you all homely.”

Dolokhov sighed, “You have to be boiling under there.”

“I am perfectly content, thank you,” He said in a rush, grabbing his reins. “We will never make it to town at this pace, Fedya. Hurry.”

Town was reached midday when the sun was at its highest and they were all tired and miserable. Dolokhov passed his horse off to Alexi, pulled the letters from his vest before asking his translator if he wished to accompany him to the meetings. Anatole made a tired sound and waved him off, “Fine, take the horses to the stables and check into the Inn. Rest, all of you, that’s an order.”

“Come on, princess,” Solokov called, jousting Anatole’s boot to get his attention. “Off the horse or do you need a hand, your highness?”

“Depends,” Anatole replied, watching Dolokhov disappear into the distance before smirking down to Solokov. “Have you washed them in the past year?”

His smirk fell from his face when he jumped from his horse and his vision tunneled gray around the edges. He tried to walk off the feeling but found himself listing too far over and nearly falling, he grabbed onto Solokov’s bare shoulder before his hand slipped from the sweat. He staggered into Alexi and nearly took them both to the ground before getting some kind of footing.

He felt shockingly _bad_ , shaky and wobbly down to his knees, and sick to his stomach. He took a couple steps from his unsteady lean against Alexi and fell to his knee, nausea rolling inside him. His name was a distant hum from somewhere above him, the tone of it wrong and alarmed.

“’s ‘kay,” He rasped because it was probably true. He just needed to – to rest, probably, and to drink some water. His stomach protested the very thought with nearly violent cramps and he dry-heaved.

He ridded his mind of that thought, shook away any thoughts of water. He just needed to lie down somewhere out of the sun, Solokov’s hulking shadow was as fine a place as any.

“Get Dolokhov,” the alarmed voice said. It was Kaysorov, he realized belatedly, crouching down next to him. He tried to tell them that he was fine, not to worry Fedya because he would write a letter and worry Hélène but all those well-placed words fell out of him mouth jumbled.

“Come on, up,” Solokov commanded, shoving his large arms under Anatole’s armpits and pulled him awkwardly to his feet, forcing to take a few stumbling steps forward. Anatole attempted to shrug him off but only managed to get himself tangled into a bear hug, “You’re burning up, princess.”

“We have to get him out of the sun,” Kaysorov said, Anatole imagined that he was running his fingers through his hair but he couldn’t see anything beyond Solokov’s beard. “I think he’s dehydrated and –“ a hand was pressed against the side of his face “– shit, yeah, he’s not sweating. I think – we need to get him somewhere cool. It’s probably heat exhaustion, it’s stifling and he’s got that coat. I don’t know. Alexi is the doctor and he went to get Dolokhov.”

Anatole felt rather than heard Solokov snort, “Alexi is no doctor.”

“Fedya isn’t a doctor, either,” Anatole muttered. He was on the ground and, he wasn’t really sure when it happened but he preferred it to being treated like a rag doll in Solokov’s arms.

His face was pressed against the cobblestone of the road. It wasn’t cooler, it was uncomfortable and hot against his face but being horizontal with solid ground made it feel less like he was going to fall off the face of the earth. He’d probably be okay if he stayed there, he told them so. They ignored him.

“We need to get his coat off.”

“We need to get him inside.”

“No,” Anatole groaned, kicking out weakly when they made a grab for it. “Don’t touch – no, my uniform – you can’t have it!”

“He’s delusional,” Someone said but their voices were melting together in the heat. “He needs to hydrate.”

Anatole was pulled up by his collar and a canteen was pressed to his lips. He discovered that he really was thirsty after all and took a few swallows, and then a few more, and then it came back up on Kaysorov’s boots.

Things got blurry from there, Anatole remembered struggling, and hands on him, and going somewhere cooler and darker. He remembered an argument, his words slurred to his ears, and his coat being taken away. He remembered hands pulling at his uniform and underclothes, and being shoved into water and told to stay.

Dolokhov heard the hum of a made-up tune before he saw slender arms cutting through the air like they were playing an invisible violin. He saw Anatole’s deceptively strong calves and his feet still stuffed in their wet stockings, crossed at the ankles on the edge of the tub. And he saw a tuff of blond hair as he followed Alexi through the Inn room and into the bathroom.

Solokov met his gaze in the doorway, arms crossed and something unreadable on his face. He reported like all good soldiers do, “We won’t allow him to drown, I think he’s angry about it.”

“Like a child,” Kaysorov muttered under his breath, glaring at the waving arms and the blond tuffs. Anatole’s hum became a louder buzz in the small room.

“A _spoiled_ child,” Solokov added, not bothering to keep his voice low. Anatole grew louder.

Dolokhov waved Alexi back to the gathering in the doorway before peering over the edge of the tub. Anatole was submerged up to his neck in the water, bare with exception of his stockings, and a strip of wet fabric across his forehead. His eyes were closed, he looked almost peaceful.

He tapped on the side of the tub until Anatole graced him with his blue eyes, annoyance and exhaustion set in them, “Lovely of you to join us, _Fedya_.”

“I was in meeting,” He replied, easily. “And you were not dying, I was giving you time to recover.”

“I have recovered, greatly,” He said, a childish whine in his voice. “They will not let me go and my coat-“

“Is-“

“On the _floor.”_

Dolokhov picked up the green fabric, made an exaggerated show of dusting it off before thrusting it into Alexi’s arms before he addressed Anatole again, “When was the last time you had water?”

“Kaysorov gave me some.”

“That’s good,” He nodded, eying the heat rash that had apparently spread far below Anatole’s collar without a word mentioned of it because it was angry and blistered against pale skin. “Water is good.”

“I threw up on his shoes.”

He sighed, “God’s sake, Anatole, lead with that. Have you drunk the bath water?”

He fixed him with an awful look, “I have not lowered myself to that form of indignity just yet, Fedya.”

Dolokohv gritted his teeth. Anatole was bitchy at the slightest inconvenience, this was going to be hell if he did not play it right and he honestly was not in the mood for it. He resisted his sigh and grabbed his canteen instead, holding it to the prince’s lips, “Drink.”

Anatole stared at him for a long time before thirst won out in the end and he took a hesitant sip only for it to be pulled away the next time, “Fedya!”

“Do you want to be sick again? No, then don’t complain.”

He opened his mouth to complain only to clamp it shut when there was snicker from the men in the doorway and he realized that they weren’t as alone as he thought. He pouted instead, “Go away. I am perfectly capable of caring for myself.”

“You demonstrated that very well.”

“I have been _handled_ , Fedya, and shoved into this ridiculous bath,” He sneered, a glare set in his eyes and tension in his jaw. He pulled his legs back into the tub and sat up a little straighter, “I do not need any more of an idiot’s idea of a prank. Leave me be.”

“You are a fool.”

“You are a fool,” Anatole mocked, sinking back into the water despite his complaining about it. He looked miserable, tired and a little green. His eyes drifted shut as he ignored Dolokhov’s next question and the one after that.

Anatole was a perpetual child, a whiny prince that had gotten everything he wanted and answered to none, and his pride was hurt. He carried himself on being perfect and all of it fell to pieces in the hot afternoon sun.

Dolokhov had to play his cards right. He needed to be gentle of his ego, comfort him the way Hélène would or his mother. He needed –

Fingers carded gently through damp blond hair and Anatole sighed softly. Dolokhov’s voice was a gentle mimic of a tone he’d heard Hélène use with him, “Stay awake, Anatole.”

He got a hum and a groan, and Anatole’s eyes stayed stubbornly shut even as his head dropped forward. Dolokhov’s hand curled into a rough fistful of hair and Anatole’s eyes were forced to open to the pain.

Screw playing nice, he was in no mood for it, “Awake, now.”

Anatole hissed but did little beyond that as he glared. Dolokhov’s voice had been a command and Anatole’s glare had little effect when it was difficult just keeping his eyes open.

His voice came out measured and calm, like he was in control, “Aye, Fedya. You have my ears. I cannot say the same for my eyes. They are independent of my thoughts today.”  

“I have a question, just one,” Dolokhov told him, voice low and close as he bent over the tub. It echoed around the dull headache at the base of Anatole’s skull. A weak nod was returned and Dolokhov asked, “Are you mad?”

“Eh?”

“Actually mad, Old-Prince-Bolkonsky-At-Marya’s-Christmas-Party crazy?” Dolokhov continued, a rant just on the tip of his tongue as he waited expectantly.

Anatole blinked and then frowned, “Uh no?”

“No?” Dolokhov repeated, releasing his hold to throw his hands in the air. “No! No? No, he says. No, did you hear that? You have to be mad to be wearing this many layers in this heat, Anatole.”

They’d been riding all day and the sun was out but the clouds were not, and Anatole ran out of water much too early in the morning because he could not quench his thirst. He remembered the cling of his silk uniform to his skin and the coarse fabric of his coat against the rash. He remembered that it was hot, that _he_ was hot, burning, and the very thought make nausea threaten him again.

He closed his eyes to the feeling and ran his hands down his face, groaning, “I ruined Kaysorov’s shoes.”

“You did more than that,” He muttered, waving a fistful of Anatole’s sweat stained undershirt in his face before throwing it back to the floor with the rest of his clothes. He kicked at it with his dirty boots. “Two _extra_ layers of clothing! Under your uniform, under that damn coat. What is wrong with you?”

They stared at each other expectantly for a moment before Anatole opened his mouth. He closed it, frowning, and then spoke finally, “I do not have to answer questions put to me in that tone.”

“The tone that suggests that you are an idiot?”

“Yes, that is the one.”

“It is not a question.”

“Then it is not an answer that you are seeking, mon cher,” He hummed, sinking back down in the water. His descend was halted by Dolokhov’s hand back in his hair, yanking Anatole roughly into a seat position, “Ow!”

“I am your superior, Kuragin,” He hissed. “Answer my damn question, now.”

“Let go!” His whine broke off into a gasp and flailing to get grip onto the sides of the tub when Dolokhov pulled his head back to an uncomfortable angle so they were eye to eye. Anatole relented with a whine just above indignity, “Fine, I – what was your question?”

Dolokhov cracked a smirk, lessening his grip by a faction and repeated the question, “Are you mad or is it just that you are stupid child, Anatole?”

“I will not lower my appearance because the weather is not agreeable,” He replied primly, finding the coordination to pinch Dolokhov hard enough to get out of his grip. His attempt to get away and out of the tub was foiled by his uncooperative legs and Dolokhov being stronger and faster than he was, pushing him back into the water with a cool hand against his shoulder.

“Explain yourself,” He demanded of him, letting go when Anatole didn’t fight his touch. He plucked the fabric that’d fallen into the water and placed it back onto Anatole’s forehead.

Anatole did not complain because it was a relief to the headache he was experiencing but he did shoot an annoyed glare to Dolokhov before simply stating, “I have not seen a tailor in many months and I did not wish to look ill-fitted so I…layered up.”

“In the middle of summer heat?” He asked incredulous and then pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make sure it is written on your tombstone that you died of heat stroke for the aesthetic.”

“So, I am to die?” He asked curiously.

“No, you are going to recover and then I am taking you home to recuperate,” Dolokhov answered. “I was supposed to remain here and then head to the Caucasus but I have requested to escort you to Petersburg.”

“Moscow, I wish to see my sister.”

“Good, maybe she can knock sense into your head.”

He laughed but then sighed, any energy he had left leaving him, “I feel ill, Fedya.”

“You look ill,” He told him. “The French would mistake you for a corpse.”

Anatole hummed indignantly, “The French have nice uniforms.”

“Don’t compliment the enemy, Anatole.”

“You tell them when you return to the frontline?”

Dolokhov ran his hands through his hair, leaning against the side of the tub. He allowed the worry to seep away because _this_ was Anatole, his ridiculous shallow friend. He shrugged, “Right after I run my sword through one, maybe.”

He smiled, pleased with Dolokhov’s answer, “Feyda, you are my favorite. Do not let them tell you differently.”

Dolokhov pressed a hand to Anatole’s face and neck, feeling the warmth still radiating from him, and Anatole leaned into the coolness of the touch. It was a tender moment, one that broken by an uncomfortable clearing of a throat, “Boss?”

Dolokhov looked up to his soldiers in the doorway and tilted his head to send them away, “Anatole is going to need something light to wear, see if you can find it.”

“Aye,” They agreed, and the room was empty but the two of them.

Anatole sighed again, “No one is going to let me live this down, are they?”

“I don’t think so,” He told him. “A fainting princess, I think they’ll call you.”

“I did _not_ faint!”

“I’m willing to say you swooned.”

“I _don’t_ swoon,” Anatole baulked. “And I didn’t faint.”

“You just fell on your ass and couldn’t get up.” 

“Exact – no, wait.”

Dolokhov laughed and Anatole pouted, and it could have been any conversation between them over the years except for the heat rash, and the exhaustion, and the nausea that showed in waves on Anatole’s face, “You scared the life out of me. You will be the cause of my first gray hair.”

“I will take pride in it, Fedya,” He laughed and then sighed, “Find me trousers, I wish to sleep and this water is cold.”

“You were experiencing – _are_ experiencing heat stroke.”

“I will experience it from a bed, I am tired.”

“And whiny.”

He huffed but it didn’t help his case so he glared instead, which also didn’t help but Fedya compromised, “You have to keep the rags, and drink more water.”

“I find those conditions fair.”

The conditions may have been fair but Anatole wouldn’t be Anatole if he didn’t complain every step of the way. He complained of the texture of the towel he used to dry off, the state of his clothes on the floor, about the whereabouts of his beloved jacket. He complained of the trousers Dolokhov found for him, slightly short for his long legs and ill-fitted, and then complained of the bed.

“Quiet, Anatole, you _are_ a headache.”

“I have a headache,” He responded. “Fetch me water, mon cher.”

Dolokhov glared at the shifting muscles in Anatole’s back as he tossed uncomfortably on the bed, he settled onto his back and accepted the water gratefully. He took a sip and then face twisted into dissatisfaction, “This is warm.”

“It is hot as hell outdoors, why are you surprised by that?” He asked, setting down a bucket of water and submerging the rag inside of them. He rung one out and draped it across Anatole’s forehead. “You are never pleased.”

“I am ill,” He sighed in relief at the rags. “I can be unpleased with war time adventures and their consequences. Are you leaving?”

“I told you-“

“No, do you have more meetings to attend?” He asked, sounding very tired and very young. He shifted and rag fell over one of his eyes. “Will you leave me this evening?”

“I do not plan to, no.”

“That’s good,” He sighed. “It is better when you are here. You look after me.”

“Not enough to notice that you are suffering heat stroke.”

“I take…precautions to appear as perfect as I can,” He noted, adjusting the rag. He blinked slowly at Dolokhov with sleep pulling at him, “No one will like me if I don’t.”

The problem with shallow people is that Anatole was right and the problem with Anatole was that he surrounded himself solely with the shallow and gossipy. Dolokhov sat on the corner of the bed, “I will.”

He sighed in his long-suffering way and nudges Anatole bare foot, “Move over, I am exhausted.”


End file.
